


Secrets you keep

by millygal



Series: Secrets [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 14:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Gene's a complete sleaze, but we love him.





	

It's one in the morning, so why is Gene stood outside Sam's flat, hand halfway to knocking?

Two things about this situation are slightly bizarre.

One; Gene doesn't knock. He's never knocked a door in his life. He goes through them head or feet first but he does **not** _knock_. 

Two; He's outside Sam's flat instead of lead on his back, in some gutter somewhere. Any other Friday night, he'd be blotto in some bush, sleepin' the sleep of the eternally pissed.

So, how comes he's managed to make his way here, without passing out? It's like his feet had an agenda all their own. 

His hand continues to hover, neither knocking nor retreating. This is bloody stupid. He must look like some half crazed garden statue.

He's about to turn and flee when he notices the door isn't latched. He can see a sliver of light forcing its way into the hall. Against his better judgement, he shuffles forwards and takes a quick peek. After all, what harm can it do? 

Apparently, a lot.

Sam's lead on his bed, completely devoid of clothes. He's got his feet firmly planted, eyes screwed shut, one hand holding the metal strut behind his head. The other is clasped tight around his cock, pulling at himself furiously. 

Gene can just about make out the sweat that's begun to form on Sam's forehead and top lip. The lip he's biting so hard, Gene doesn't know how he hasn't drawn blood. 

Every instinct is telling Gene to run, as far and as fast as he can, but there's something about the way Sam's face contorts on every downward stroke, that keeps him rooted to the spot. Unable to breath, let alone move.

He can feel himself getting hard, harder than he's been in a long time. Each whispered plea, each hushed whimper is going straight to Gene's own cock. 

Sam shifts on the bed and Gene finds himself doing the same.

This is a private moment, maybe that's why he's finding it impossible to tear his eyes away. He's never seen Sam so unguarded, he's never seen him so open. Even though he's the easiest member of the team to read, Gene's never seen him look so vulnerable. 

He realises his hand is still hovering in mid air. 

With movements steadier than he feels, he lets his hand drop to the button on his trousers. Quickly popping it open, he lowers his zip, pushing his trousers down just enough to get his hand inside. Leaning the other against Sam's door frame, Gene begins to pump himself in time to Sam's steady strokes.

His timings all off to start with, his breathing erratic and shallow. He knows he could get caught any moment. A neighbour could open their door, someone could step from the lift and Sam'd only have to open his eyes and they'd be staring each other in the face.

He fights the urge to close his eyes and hammer away at himself. Usually it's a quick one-two-three and he's snoring, slumped up against his bathroom mirror. 

Instead he focuses on Sam's face, on the way his jaw clenches each time he runs his fingers over the tip of his cock. The way he seems to be mouthing words, words Gene would give anything to hear.

Slowing his breathing, staying his wrist, Gene waits for Sam's hand to travel upward again. 

They're in time now, whenever Gene's hand pulls down, Sam's hand does the same. In some dank little corner of his mind, Gene is imagining Sam's hand instead of his own.

Sam thrusts his hips forwards and Gene finds his own following the same path. The knuckles on his right hand have gone white, he's gripping the door frame so tight, desperate not to shout out and give himself away.

He can feel himself getting closer, racing towards the finish line. He slows his movements a fraction and searches for something else to concentrate on. He finds himself staring, transfixed, at Sam's toes. They keep curling and uncurling in time with his strokes. Gathering the sheets then letting them drop.

Sam's whimpers are becoming more desperate, more frantic. It makes Gene's head swim, he could drown in those sounds. The only thing anchoring him to the here and now is flesh on flesh. That flesh is burning, scorching.

Sam's thrashing about on the bed, head twisting this way and that. He looks like a drowning man, but he doesn't let go of that metal strut, even though his arm is twisted at an odd angle. 

Gene stares, amazed, as Sam begins to speed up. His rhythm is all but gone, it's a desperate pace for a desperate man and Gene matches him, stroke for stroke. He can hear his keys jangling in his pocket but he just can't stop, can never stop.

Gene's knees have gone, they've gone and he's falling forwards. His head thumps against the door frame and he knows he'll probably have an extremely odd looking bruise to explain away, he doesn't care. It's getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open but he doesn't want to miss the look on Sam's face when he finally cums.

Gene can feel his own orgasm surging up, clawing against his consciousness. 

Something explodes behind Gene's eyes, white noise, stars, spots. He can feel himself loosing his grip on reality, _still_ he doesn't look away from Sam's face.

Sam grunts, shouts something and cums. His entire body convulses.

Gene grunts, shouts something and cums. His entire body convulses.

It's only after he's tucked himself away, slipped from Sam's still unlatched door and is slumped against the side of his Cortina, that Gene finally hears _what_ Sam shouted.

__

"Fuck, Gene"

Gene drops into the drivers' seat, revs the engine and disappears into the night. Smiling.


End file.
